


Il pleure dans mon coeur

by MovereCrus3



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Attempted giant Grantaire speeches, Banter, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire Friendship, M/M, Oblivious Grantaire, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Pining Grantaire, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24092806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovereCrus3/pseuds/MovereCrus3
Summary: The usual. But it was just so boring, the others Amis were probably out in the rain trying to persuade Enjolras to call off that rally, yanking him, trying to drag him away. And probably failing too.It must be amazing. They were getting to see an Enjolras showered by the storm, incandescent blue eyes set ablaze, shouting at them and folding those vermillion lips, his boisterous locks swish back and forth and weaving the plot of an angry chant, the cold wrath of the gods dwelling his face.Enjolras holds a rally even under the raging storm and inevitably falls sick.Grantaire takes care of him without him knowing, at first.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire
Kudos: 34





	Il pleure dans mon coeur

_Il pleure sur la ville_

_comme il pleut dans mon coeur;_

_Quelle est cette langueur_

_Qui pénètre mon coeur ?_

The Musain was unusually empty that day, it quite looked like a muggy watercolour painting.

Only Gibelotte kept working around the tables, carrying two pitchers in one hand. She would take a break from time to time just to chat with two medicine students who were crying over their failed exams, and attempted to flirt with one of them. The young pale man looked at her through his blurry lenses, checked out her sweaty skin and her dusty hands, raised a brow and the waitress suddenly understood she was totally failing at it.

The other one, Matelote, was uglier than any other day, Grantaire thought. He was there and he was drinking, watching the others carrying on with their lives, like any other day. The usual. But it was just so boring, the others Amis were probably out in the rain trying to persuade Enjolras to call off that rally, yanking him, trying to drag him away. And probably failing too.

It must be amazing. They were getting to see an Enjolras showered by the storm, incandescent blue eyes set ablaze, shouting at them and folding those vermillion lips, his boisterous locks swish back and forth and weaving the plot of an angry chant, the cold wrath of the gods dwelling his face.

He would be there too if Enjolras himself hadn’t ordered him to stay there and finish gulping down his booze since he had nothing else better to do his life long. And Grantaire wasn’t able to disobey the person he loved, admired and worshipped.

“I’ll be waiting for you here then,” he had responded, with an adoring smile painted on his lips. Yet in his hearts of hearts he was dreaming of gazing at Apollo gleaming beneath the thunder lights, angrier than ever, blood rushing in his veins. Not that Apollo hadn’t figured out his mind.

“You have no interest in my speech I presume, so it’s useless for you to come!” Enjolras had responded, and it had begun to rain harder in that very moment.

“I wish you will make those people believe in you as much as I do” Grantaire sighed breathless and helpless, a non conveyable gentleness in his glance. The stare the blonde gave him in lieu of an answer shook droplets of wine off his lips and had him quit drinking for the time being.

“I don’t want your wishes.”

“Just take them, as you took my heart.”

Another wild, livid stare, more intense than the first if even possible. He really looked like a furious yet deadpan Apollo, like the Apollo Belvedere clutching Python in his fist. That cheap wine that always smelled of brie would never overwhelm the artist as just as catching a single glare by Enjolras did.

“I wish you were serious, just for once.”

“I am always dead serious about you.”

They were fighting to have the final say, they always did. Courfeyrac and Combeferre watched the scene amused as Prouvaire kept writing down his madrigal sitting tranquil beside Grantaire. Enjolras eventually wrapped the whole matter up with a haughty nod of his head and stepped out the door, followed by his two loyal companions, or the ones whom he forced to follow him even with a storm raging on

Grantaire hadn’t seen him since. He was worried for him, nothing would have stopped him from gathering a crowd of potential insurgents and yelling about the revolution, Robespierre, Rousseau , Danton, all those angry folks, wielding the Social Contract in his hand like a spear, not even the great Deluge itself.

“Do you think he’ll come back soon? It’s gonna pour!” Prouvaire asked him, still absorbed in his writing. Grantaire looked at him detachedly.

“Well, I don’t know. What I do know is that he won’t come back on his own will.”

“Oh, I’d bet 100 francs on it.”

“Hey, he’ll be fine, don’t get upset over it,” Grantaire shrugged.

Prouvaire smirked and rolled a strand of red hair around his index finger, without dropping his pen. 

“You are worrying for him, not me. And he’s not actually made of marble, you know.”

“Even if he’d get struck by a thunderbolt he would never learn to stay quiet for once,” Grantaire gave a coarse chuckle “Oh no, he’s ready to offer his own head in sacrifice to his Patria on a silver platter right now, to have her slice it like a new and lesser naughty Judith. Whatever it takes to make her content. Some cold water coming down from the sky won’t certainly do any harm to him. When and if he’ll come back, he will just stare at me like the goddess Athena in person and tell me: ‘See? Difficulties cannot but temper the spirit of those who struggle to accomplish the great design of mankind and are able to see the revolution awaiting for them in order to shine over a bloody and crownless Paris. Something you will never understand.”

“And you will smile at him as dreamily as you are looking right now and start teasing and prodding him again, exactly from where you got interrupted.” Prouvaire concluded for him.

He was a little bit sly, way more mischievous than what he seemed to me. Grantaire knew he wasn’t just a sweet poet and a loveable soul, he also had that slight hint of malice and caprice he liked in men surrounding him which made them actually interesting fellows to confess his disgraces to.

“I can’t win with him, can I? That’s why I am so fond of him, Jehan. I would never change that.”

Prouvaire opened his eyes wide and his face pinched in amusement: “Fond? You never tone down what you say, what’s gotten over you, R?” 

“I fear to define what I feel more than I refuse to define myself. A mere ‘I love you’ could never sum up the wilderness of the totally clashing, pure and unquenchable feelings I have for him. I would need something less banal and less grotesque mostly. Saying 'I love you' to someone is utterly grotesque, even more in my case cause I really mean it. ” Grantaire filled his glass to the brim again, a sombre shadow befell on his face.

“Not like your yearning glances couldn’t talk for themselves.”

“Am I so oblivious?”

“You look like you could devour him in kisses, but only after demanding his permission.”

Grantaire poked his freckled cheek:

“Oh! It’s not just that. What I feel for him it’s whole devotion, and believe me, I know it though I have abhorred religion from my life.” he scoffed.

His Satyr like black curls were covering his pale blue eyes as he spoke, Prouvaire thought he really could be beautiful in his own way if he'd ever get rid of his penchant for depravity.

"Still I preferred to get wasted. I am a fine machine life didn't want to put to use."

"That's not how you uphold anarchy though." 

The poet contemplated the full page he'd just finished writing as his friend gave an heartfelt laughter. 

"Ha, no! Not according to my Saint-Just, the only one who could ever rule over me. Someone whose only purpose in life is to crush any form of government, it's quite hilarious."

Grantaire was a good man after all, Prouvaire said to himself. For only good men could love someone in that way and for their life long. It was so poetic, it was such an intimate connection albeit only one of the two parts was aware of.

“Oh, but he really is good at firing up hearts that have grown cold,” the drunkard began again “If I used to be a dauber before, he has turned me into a failed artist. And he’s been capable not to make me completely useless, he always uses me as a bad example. It’s not a mere intoxication I can just sleep off. Might being unaffectable by love causing him to make others fall for him so desperately?”

There was a puddle of wine under the goblet, he just lifted it and licked across that stripe of table. Prouvaire pretended he didn’t see it.

“You’re the only desperate here.” he commented, sarcastically then his lips unfurled in one of his delicate half.smiles “and the perfect subject of a poem at the same time.” 

Grantaire just gave him a feeble look. His drunkenness was having his mood switch again. He could feel the blues coming and making him plunge back into alcohol talk.

“Are you comparing me to one of the ladies who go after him? Well, I understand you. Not even being a lady could be of any help and this consoles my heart at least. I wish I was France herself, to be true. I wish I was called Marianne, clad in a gown, a large Phrygian cap warming my hothead and yelling to people to march forward and die in my name. He would kiss my hand, and I would perhaps die too if he did that.”

“It looks like the only entity he’d love didn’t save him a downpour though.”

At those words, Grantaire turned back. His gaze suddenly met a rain drenched Enjolras, holding onto both Courfeyrac and Combeferre for dear life. His blonde locks were scattered down his forehead like broken filigree and his schlumpy shoulders trembled. One of them made him raise his chin and he unawarely showed his hot flushed face to Grantaire, who found as stunning as ever, or even more. 

“What happened?” Prouvaire gasped, stepping towards them.

“He’s insisted on finishing his speech although nobody fleed home as soon as it started to rain!”

Courfeyrac barked, as he practically threw his hat on the floor “That was to be expected honestly.” 

“So he’s kept talking alone, like nothing happened?”

“Aw yes, we tried everything to make him leave his darn box but he didn’t go for it! He didn’t even realise his Social Contract was turning to scrap paper!” Combeferre replied, not looking directly at them since his glasses were all blurry. They laid Enjolras on the closest armchair then Prouvaire helped them taking their soaked clothes off while Gibelotte came back with the first cover she could find and wrapped it around them.

“My Dear God, not a day goes by where I can work without you all making trouble!” she lamented, but still she was offering her help kindly. Grantaire didn’t even notice that. All his attention was focused on Enjolras, shivering in front of the billiard table in that uncomfortable chair. He looked on the verge of passing out, shrouded in his drenched flaming red jacket. His chest was slightly in sight, frantically swelling and lowering, sign that he could barely breathe.

“Oh my God, Apollo!” 

Grantaire rushed to him, he quickly helped him get rid of his jacket, slipped off his waistcoat and wrapped his back in it. Next, he removed his wet tie, tossed it away unceremoniously and placed an arm on his back to help him stand more comfortably. Enjolras’s convulse breath gradually slowed to a normal pace but he hadn't stopped trembling, not even in the artist’s arms. 

“You’re quite a gambler, aren’t you? Although you dislike whatever gambling-related game I waste my time on!” he murmured close to his ear.

Enjolras did not answer. He was neither conscious or asleep, perhaps he was just too feeble to do anything, talk included. Grantaire ran a hand through his dripping hair over and over again, pressing his thumb on his scalding forehead.

“He should lie in bed,” Prouvaire suggested “Do you know where he lives?”

“Not really.”

“Too distant from here to get there on time.” Combeferre intervened “I would let him sleep at my place but there isn’t enough room for him too.”

Courfeyrac looked at himself in the stained glass window, to check himself out:

“Well, I won’t be home early tonight. I got to meet some pretty lady awaiting-” 

“I don’t leave far from here, you know,” Grantaire stopped him mid-sentence, clearly not interested in whatever business he had to attend “I know he will be mad at me when he’ll wake up but-”

“Why would he? He’ll have no reason to get mad at you!” Prouvaire said.

“Yes, but-”

“Not after you took care of him!”

“Oh”

Taking care of Enjolras was something totally unexpected. He was always the one in dire need for some reason or the other, drunkenness, money, women, debts, so on and so forth. Enjolras remained seemingly unaffected by whatever event crossed his path, as powerful, vengeful as a demigod among humans. His resolve alone was the fuel of his life, it was like he could go through anything and defy anyone and still preserve his purity and his rightness wholly but Grantaire forgot he wasn’t actually made of marble. Even Enjolras could catch a cold.

“That’s more than fine by me then,” he responded, with a giggle “You believe in God, prey that he wakes up in a good mood tomorrow!” 

Grantaire spent the evening holding Enjolras in his arms until it stopped raining. It was a strange and powerful sensation, something he was still trying to figure out, like a spell. He was heavier than a girl but looked like one, peacefully asleep like that, yet a little trail of fury lit up his apparently numb features, like an internal fire. A fire Grantaire would kept warming himself by and that would have never gone out.

Perhaps that was what holding a fallen angel might have felt like. Not that he would even happen to believe in angels, but he always found excellent metaphors in Christianity. Enjolras could have been a Lucifer and a Prometheus. Grantaire could just be the fool in each respectable sovereign's court.

Whatever it was about, his burning love for that young man mde it feel like entering and then dwelling inside a dream. Grantaire was well accustomed to the sensation of unsubstiality dreams gave, Enjolras’s gentle breathing on his neck hit him on the concrete. Never would he take advantage of that, just as Prouvaire had told him, nothing would ever compel Grantaire to rip that savage litheness and candour away from Enjolras. He would have just looked at him in that impossibile and ethereal state and hold that image forever in his mind. He would protect it from what the wine did to him. 

He would retain it his life long, there was still enough room in his heart for that one memory only; his other dreams by then belonged just to his not so occasional, shallow drunken stupor. His being among the dregs of humankind didn’t allow him any better. While Enjolras was a reverie he would never awake from.

Enjolras woke up and found himself wrapped in a warm blanket, embraced by light. Weird, he could only remember the storm raging on furious, bury all his speech under an unmerciful layer of water and melted paper, his two friends shouting his name and his own stubbornness. Now the sound of the rain was but a distant memory. Not the first time he was reckless, it was nothing to be surprised of. Anything for the Cause. Who cared if he got a cold?

That room though gave off a particular scent, nothing he might have breathed in before, not such intensely at least. He turned to this other side, adjusted his head on the pillow and eventually caught a glimpse of someone, lying near him. Then he felt something surrounding his hip possessive yet kind. An arm like a king’s, traversed by blue veins and bright color stains. 

“Don’t tell me you woke up already, Apollo! I was about to finish!” the man exclaimed, a little bit bummed. Fuck, his date, sorts of, was already over with!

“Grantaire! How could you… You… you!” Enjolras yelled, got suddenly off the bed and stuck onto the wall, shivering in rage.

“Relax, I haven’t harmed a hair on that pretty head of yours!” Grantaire said , easy, hiding his small and half-finished sketch and his worn out pencil behind his back. His blanket was wrapped around Enjolras’s waist like a tunic, who towered over him severe and graceful. It was the only precious thing that had ever entered that room, of course he had received him like a king.

“Why am I here? Why did you put me in your bed? Why did we sleep together?” 

“Sleep? That’s a strong word.” Grantaire shrugged “I’ve kept an eye on you all night long. You really made me worry this time!”

Enjolras turned pale:

“It wasn’t my intention, none ever asked you to take care of me while sick.”

“It wasn’t like you could ask, you know...”

“We shared a bed!”

“Oh, you’re right! I’m sorry I hadn’t a spare bedroom for you!”

Instead of accusing him again, Enjolras just furrowed.

“Anyway, you are welcome.” the artist smiled “My house is your house, I do believe it truly. Perhaps I could pretend to be the Virgin Mary and have been visited by an angel, although you really look closer to the angel Michael than Gabriel. He’s… how can I say… more belligerent and less indulgent than him. He suits you, doesn’t he?”

“Enough with your drunk talk!”

“I’m not drunk now. I made sure to be sobered up before taking you home, what do you take me for. That is revolutionary, isn’t it?”

Grantaire wasn’t even doing it on purpose, although Enjolras altered looks made a chill roll down his spine. He saw him just flashing his eyes, threatening to balance his jaw with a punch. Grantaire handled him his favorite garment, by then fully dried, as nothing was happening.

“Here’s your jacket, my sweet Apollo.”

Enjolras was at a loss of words. Not the kind of ballsy he liked.

“Mmh.”

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing of your business!”

“Mm’kay”

“Thank you, ok? Are you happy now?”

“More than I expected honestly. See you, Apollo, same place same time.” Grantaire winked “Actually, wherever and whenever you need me.”

“Go to hell!” Enjolras muttered, picking up his other clothes. 

It was the best one night stand Grantaire had ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is my first actual Les Mis fic. The quarantine summoned my love for this pairing and I wrote this. I really hope you liked it! <3


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